Vincit Qui Se Vincit
by celestine de karamel
Summary: When war brings grief, loss, and a world to rebuild, who can speak of a winning and a losing side? Eight young wizards deal with love, jobs and family ties, and, amidst the hardships, try to make a better future for themselves.
1. Chapter 1

From the other side of the wall came a muffled sob, a tiny, plaintive sound that disturbed the silence.

Whispers, doors opened and closed with care so as not to make too much noise, and now crying… there had been so much going behind the apparent safety of the night that Daphne wondered, turning in her sheets, if she would ever manage to fall asleep again.

This time it was Rose. Her older sister's sobs continued in the adjacent room and Daphne squeezed her eyes shut, irritated and exhausted. She thought of dinner that evening – her mother's pointed stares, her father's smug satisfaction. Daphne had the impression that he had recentlty managed to get rid of yet another tie that bound him with the wrong kind of people -the ones who were rotting in Azkaban as Daphne was lying in bed. People the wizarding world, thirsty for redemption, hungry for culprits, ashamed and angry, would never let see the light of day again.

Rose was still crying and this time Daphne buried her head under the pillow. There had been a terrible scene and their voices had resounded all around the empty house - Rose dramatically sinking to the ground, protesting with tears, their father unmoving, unyielding.

Daphne remembered how proud her father had looked just a few months before, how much taller her mother had held herself, when they'd announced Rose was engaged to a very wealthy Pureblood young man, from a very wealthy Pureblood family. And Rose, a precious shard of light glittering on her finger, smiling haughtily for the good luck she thought she deserved, had convinced herself she loved him, prodded on by her parents and enticed by her fiancé's impeccable social status.

What was his name again? Someone from the Flint family… Claudius, was it? Rose had met him less than a year before, and Daphne had only seen him twice. She wasn't even sure she knew what he looked like… and yet that very evening her sister had sworn she would throw herself into a lake and drown out of despair if the engagement was called off.

But the engagement was going to be called off, and Rose would never throw herself in a lake. She probably imagined, Daphne assumed, that it would be a romantic death – with long strands of hair flowing in the water, stately reeds bending towards the water in sorrow, and dead skin as pale as porcelain…

No blood, gushing out from torn flesh, no broken bones, no wide, unblinking eyes staring at the living…

Daphne shook away the images in her head and curled up on her mattress. The whole business was ridiculous and pathetic, and it made Daphne feel sick to think of it. The smugness on her father's face…

"We can't very well hide the fact that the girls were in Slytherin," she remembered him saying, sitting on his chair and stroking his beard, deep in thought. "But I daresay – if we take certain precautions – we can prove to the Ministry that we had no hand whatsoever in this… that our name is clean…"

He had even chuckled to himself then, looking for all the world rather jolly. "Why, I believe we even have some Half-bloods somewhere in our family tree… Rather far down the line, but that should do nicely."

In the Greengrass family, there had always been a strict set of rules to follow, and nothing had changed since June except their content.

Any mention of what had happened at Hogwarts – forbidden. Any mention of Pureblood families – forbidden. And any contact with other Slytherin students – forbidden.

It was the last rule that had set Daphne's blood boiling, but quietly, as always, under cover of dark, lowered eyes, a pale face and a shy expression. It wasn't as if she felt the irrepressible urge to contact her friends, girls who dressed better and more smartly than she ever had, knew how to fix their hair, and had always considered her with a sort of pitying smile that reminded her of Rose. It was simply the feeling of being a toy in her parents' hands, an obscene reminder of their hypocrisy. For years they had showered her with recommendations, dressed her up in the best they could afford, steered her towards what they called "their kind", even though they weren't half as rich, or half as refined, or half as able to show off prestigious ancestors.

Rose, crafty and conciliatory, had known how to make the best of what they had – their manners and their blood. But Daphne had struggled to keep up with the pack, always trailing behind, awkward and meek, unable to smirk and simper and smile when the situation demanded it, terrified of being left out. Ultimately, her parents had resented her for it, and no amount of good grades could make up for her failings.

And now… now…

Daphne turned onto her back and opened her eyes. The moon was drawing pale squares of light on her wall. Her sister was done crying – she had probably fallen asleep.

Daphne couldn't help but feel sorry for her, for her and her simple, stupid heart, for her unflinching belief in the family's worth. Now it was as if Rose alone had lost the war, as if her mother and father were putting all the weight of defeat on her shoulders, she who had once been the cherished daughter, the favourite daughter, the daughter carrying the hopes of a respectable Pureblood marriage.

Her father was acting as if he had something to forgive. "It's no use fretting over this," Daphne had heard him tell Rose that very evening in a grave voice. "We'll overlook this folly – this engagement… find another one soon, one much more favourable for us all."

Her father, with that horrible, satisfied smile of his, and the affectionate pat he laid on Daphne's head. "I've arranged an internship at the Ministry for you, my dear. There's no profession more honourable than that of law, and with your excellent grades, it was no trouble at all to convince them…"

Favourable. Honourable.

A tear was rolling down Daphne's cheek. Tomorrow was the first of September, and she would start her internship. She would clear the family name in busy halls of the Ministry, in the drab cubicle of a clerk's office.

She would clear the family name because that was the only hope any of them had left.


	2. Chapter 2

With the fading of summer, friends and family members started to leave, or drop by less often, as if they were all realising that life had to go on after all, that they had to wake up in the morning to go to work and deal with bills and go to the grocery store.

Of course, there were other things to deal with that were less mundane – debating, judging, rebuilding. Planning ceremonies. Ordering statues. Taking care of the hazy mess the wizarding world seemed to be in, making sense out of it all. No doubt Kingsley would be more than fit for such a task, but already detractors were speaking out.

It got very quiet when Ginny left for Hogwarts. More quiet still, and much harder to bear, when Hermione left too. It felt as if the sun had been veiled by a pale, milky cloud, as if autumn had finally come. When she left, it was as if a ball of clay had settled in his stomach and his heart had slowed down to a stop.

Ron was alone in his room, and looking out the window at the garden, placid and green under the rain. The world was spinning on without him.

It wasn't like that at first. At first, there had been a whirlwind of things to do, reporters crowding at the door, trips to the Ministry, and demands for celebration, for commemoration, for happiness and for rejoicing.

And Ron had been content – relieved in the deepest part of his soul that Harry and Hermione were by his side, alive and unhurt, relieved whenever he looked at his little sister, at his parents, at his brothers. Content, even though it was impossible not to think of Fred in these moments, where life seemed so wonderful, where the comfort of home felt like a soothing balm after months of facing constant danger.

Sometimes it was almost unbearable to look at George, to hear him speak when no one was there to finish his sentences. And it was worse for George than for any of them.

But George had left for London now, and Fred had been buried, in great pomp, alongside Lupin and Tonks and other heroes of the battle, and Bill and Fleur had left too after that, and Harry…

They wouldn't leave him alone at first, not for a heartbeat, and his parents had actually had to put the protective charms back on The Burrow to make sure he wouldn't be bothered. After awhile, though, it became impossible to ignore that August was reaching its end and that there was something waiting for them beyond the hedges, the field where they played Quidditch, the pond where they went to swim in the evening. It was time for heroes on holiday to sign into life again, as Hermione liked to put it.

Ron turned away from the window – his room seemed so small now, so cramped. Even when he'd taken down the Chudley Canon posters with their gaudy orange hue, so cheerful and obsolete, the walls still seemed to trap him. He sat on his bed, where he'd left Harry's letter, and took it out of its envelope to read it again.

_Dear Ron,_

_I hope you're doing all right and that your parents are fine. I started class today – mostly theory right now, and more boring stuff than I would've imagined. Can't wait for you to come to London, I've already started looking around for a flat to rent. _

_Hermione told me she'd be back in England in time for her birthday. How about a birthday and housewarming party all at once? _

_Harry_

Ron smiled and put the letter back, then plopped down on the bed. Harry had insisted that Ron join him in London before he'd left – perhaps as a way to prove to Ron that even though they wouldn't be together at Auror training, things wouldn't change. They'd still be together, Harry and Ron, best friends nothing could keep apart.

"I'll let you pick you out the curtains," Ron had told him, grinning good-naturedly, a glass of Firewhiskey in hand and the stars above glimmering over the porch. Harry was lying in the grass, and his bags were packed upstairs, all set to go. "Something I'd never thought I'd say to a bloke, to be honest."

It was hard to imagine Harry so far away now, sitting on the benches of some Ministry conference room, chatting with new people, making new friends, perhaps…

"You're not going to apply?" he'd asked one morning at breakfast, bewildered, after Ron had told him his intentions.

Ron had blushed. He didn't want to hear it out loud, nor did he want to speak it, the sudden break in their perfect plans – going into training like they'd gone to Hogwarts. Together. Without any change.

But things had to change, and this time, Ron had found someone who needed him more than Harry did.

"No. I've given some thought and… and I don't think it's the thing for me, mate. Seriously, I'm not really cut out for studies that long."

"You mean you're not cut out for studies without Hermione around to check over your homework for you," Harry replied with a lop-sided grin.

"Yeah, that's about right."

There was another letter on his bed.

_Ron,_

_I'm planning on reopening the shop on October 1__st__ –the new stock needs to come in and I'm working on new prototypes. Drop by when you get to London. _

_George_

In every line, every word, Ron tried to decipher a shred of hope, a sign that George was starting to get back to his normal self. The shop would reopen – that was something, wasn't it? And George couldn't do it alone.

It was his duty to help his brother. His duty to take up the family business, to keep things together with his sister in school, with Charlie so far away, with Bill starting a family of his own, with Percy so busy working for the Ministry again, under Kingsley's orders.

He was the only one left.

A delicious aroma floated over to his nostrils and Ron sat up. He realised he was hungry – it was about time for lunch. He clambered downstairs to the kitchen, where his mother was bent over a simmering cauldron of soup. Her vivid red hair stood out sharply against her black robes.

When she heard him, Molly turned around, and the spark of her smile reached her eyes.

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Nothing to do but sleep, eat a bit, read, watch a film, sleep some more. Her legs were cramped and a headache was starting just beneath her brow, but at the same time, it almost felt good to do something so undemanding, so Muggle, and on her own.

Nearly twenty-four hours of flight. One stopover in Singapore. And then she'd be on the other side of the world. Hermione moved her feet from underneath her, made circles with her ankles, lifted her legs by stretching her toes. She'd read in the magazine provided by the airline that not moving your legs could cause your blood to clot.

Funny how she still paid attention to such minor warnings after narrowly missing death herself.

The flight attendant arrived with a trolley, smiled at Hermione, asked for her selection of drink, put a platter full of food in front of her. Hermione thanked her and took a sip of her Coke.

Yes, it was nice to do something that didn't involve any magic, just plain work, technology, mathematics. The woman sitting next to her had nervously gripped her armrests when the plane had lifted off the ground, as if the plane would crash back down again. But its sturdy structure, its heaviness, its roaring engines reassured Hermione – there was no work of the mind here, no will coming from the tip of a wand, or murmured spells, or enchantments no one could see.

She smiled and took another sip.

Of course, there would be some magic to do when she got to Australia. It would be extremely complex to remove the heavy Confundus charm she had placed on her parents, even more complex to explain to them why she had done so in the first place, and why they were living in Brisbane when the last thing they remembered was having breakfast in Wingham.

"I could go with you," Ron had told her, stroking her hair from the tip of his fingers, a few days before she'd left. "That way you wouldn't have to deal with all that alone… and I could tell your parents what a heroic daughter they have."

"I wish you could, but I think I owe it to them to let them have me all to themselves, at least for a little while."

And Hermione wanted to have her parents all to herself as well. It had been so long since she'd seen them… and when she last had, she didn't know if she ever would again…

It was thrilling and it made her want to grin, the simple thought of hugging them, letting them see she was okay, she was fine, they had won, all was right.

Even though… it would have been nice to have Ron here with her. Holding her hand. And kissing her – she loved it when they kissed. It was simply perfect, and exciting, and it made her chest swell pleasantly and fill with warm flutterings. Hermione wished they could have more time to themselves, though. So far, besides the kissing, it was hardly as if they were boyfriend and girlfriend at all. There had been no long, romantic walks, hand in hand, no embraces under the moonlight, no dates to the cinema, or the restaurant…

Of course, Ron had to take care of his family, and both of them had to support Harry, think of their futures, and prepare themselves for the long and difficult reconstruction of the wizarding world… but surely, that didn't mean they couldn't have a normal relationship. Like a real boy and a real girl.

Hermione liked to think of herself as Ron's girlfriend. It was nice, and rather thrilling - it was something to look forward to.

Suddenly, the endless flight seemed longer than ever. She couldn't wait to get to Australia. Once she'd arrived, she'd be one step closer to coming back.


	3. Chapter 3

"I hope you're all set to go -"

"But do we have to? I mean, you're sure there's no way out of -"

"Be quiet! I already told you a million times."

Draco pressed his lips together and looked at the fire dying in the hearth. It was hard – no, not hard, it was inconceivable to think it would be the last time he looked into that fire place, the last time he walked on the ancient marble floor in the hall… He tried to tell himself he'd touched the smooth wood of the stairs' banister for the last time, repeating the sentence over and over again in his head, but it merely felt like a silly lie.

And yet, they were leaving. His mother was standing next to their dark leather trunks – they looked so small, how could all their possessions fit in there? – and fiddling about nervously to find something in her embroidered pouch. Her face was drawn, her traits pale, and yet she seemed determined.

Draco wondered if his mother was actually happy to escape from anything that could remind her of what had happened. Lucius tortured and disgraced, Bellatrix killed.

At first, for a fleeting moment, Draco had felt the usual reflex of wanting revenge, of vowing to avenge his aunt in the name of his mother against the blood-traitor who had done away with her… but the truth was that he was tired. He was tired of the need for revenge and fighting and honour his father had instilled in him.

And the truth was that he simply wasn't cut out to die for any cause, nor kill for that matter. He liked prestige, wealth and comfort. He despised humble people, weak people, people with tender hearts and a naïve view of the world. He wanted what was best for him.

But Draco wasn't an ideologist. He didn't care for ideas. And he had never particularly cared for Bellatrix either – to his mind, it was just as good that she was dead.

These truths were rather easy to take. Others, not so much, like the fact that Potter had saved his life, that his mother had saved Potter in return. And Draco's Slytherin robes were tucked safely away in a trunk, never to be used again. Hogwarts was over. The war was over.

There was nothing left in the near future but a pile of paperwork to go through and endless, fruitless trips to the Ministry. There was no other place for him in this new world.

"The carriage should be here any minute," Narcissa said. "Come on."

"I don't see why we couldn't Apparate either -"

"In the middle of Hogsmeade? And have people point at us and jeer us off the street?" His mother's voice wavered slightly. "The carriage is expensive, I wanted to spare us the Knight Bus, but if you'd rather -"

"No, I'm sorry," Draco muttered. "Sorry. It's fine. Let's go."

Both of them levitated their trunks and bags out the door. Draco felt a tight ball form in his throat, and his eyes were burning. He wouldn't think of it, he wouldn't.

But the smallest hedge in the alley leading up to the front gate seemed to remind him of a silly game or other he did as a child, and the way his mother always kept it perfectly trimmed, and the way it would grow wild and unkempt when no one would be here to tend to it.

The carriage was waiting and as they boarded, Draco saw his mother's shoulders shake. He sat down and looked straight ahead of him. He didn't want to see the tears running down her cheeks, blotching her face. He didn't want to see the manor disappearing from view as the carriage lurched forward.

"Mother, don't," he said, holding out his hand and placing it awkwardly on hers, as if the ball in his throat was spreading to his limbs. "We'll get the manor back, somehow -"

The words sounded absurd even as Draco spoke them. The Ministry would never let any Malfoy reclaim what was lost, he saw that now – they'd taken the manor on grounds that it had been Voldemort's headquarters, that the place had to be inspected, verified, dismantled, torn apart. And they'd have him and his mother locked away in Azkaban along with his father if they could, to erase the Malfoy name from the face of the earth just like they would the manor.

It was their shame, too, Draco thought furiously. His father was paying for their shame and their weakness as much as he was paying for what he'd done. Perhaps Bellatrix was lucky to have been killed by someone who had fought till the end, instead of being ferociously judged by the same people who had stepped aside to make way for her a week before…

"I don't care."

Narcissa's voice was so low that Draco thought he hadn't heard well at first. "You don't -"

"I don't care," she repeated, sniffling in a handkerchief. "The manor and the furniture can go to them – but Lucius won't stay in their hands much longer, I can promise you that."

"Mother, we've been over it a hundred times before," Draco started, then sighed. He didn't think her mother's lie to Voldemort would count against a Ministry in need of the wizarding community's unconditional support – and the wizarding community wanted culprits.

His mother shook her head and sniffled again. "He _won't_."

It was no use. They were completely alone, without the slightest hope of receiving aid or support. They were on their way to a new, unfamiliar place they were going to have to call home.

Still, Draco thought, the two of the them – the _three_ of them were alive.

"I promise I'll go to the Ministry every day," he said, patting her hand, then withdrawing it. "We'll find a way. We'll get Potter – we'll get him to testify of what you did."

An image of himself writing an owl to Potter, pleading for help, flashed through Draco's mind and he almost snorted in derision.

"Perhaps the Parkinsons…" her mother ventured.

This time, Draco really did snort. "If they're not completely insane, they'll keep a low profile for awhile, and letting us under their roof won't really help their case."

"But you and Pansy -"

"She's away," he said curtly.

His mother said nothing. And Draco found there was nothing to say about it either. He already too much to miss and to regret to think about Pansy for now.

Outside, the sky was hanging drearily over a greenish field, and the carriage rolled along.


	4. Chapter 4

Since Fred's funeral, she had come to hate ceremonies. The big words, the grave faces, the elaborate display of flags and flowers… Ginny hated ceremonies but she felt a sort of pity for those who put so much effort in preparing them. These people, whoever they were, were convinced that the speech would bring comfort to those who heard it, that the arrangement of flowers would bring them hope, or joy.

But clearly, these people didn't know that what Fred would have really liked was a firework, a huge, banging, whirling firework in lieu of a speech, because whatever had to be said about him was contained in that phenomenal spark, in that big, brilliant joke, in his brother's careful crafting of each rocket.

And these people didn't know Colin either. Ginny looked down at her feet, wondering what Colin would've liked. A huge display of pictures of his life all around the Great Hall - wizarding pictures, to impress his Muggle father.

Suddenly, she felt her chin tremble and her throat constrict as she imagined Colin's father, the milkman, standing alone in front of his son's grave in a Muggle cemetery, not understanding in the least why he had come to die.

The speech was over and everyone raised their hand in a toast, and Ginny scrambled to take her glass too, murmuring Colin's name.

Professor McGonagall, who was now Headmistress, made the traditional opening speech. A dozen new students at most, huddling together, were ushered into the Great Hall. The Sorting was almost grotesquely short – it seemed many wizarding parents were too scared to put their children back in school. Hogwarts had not yet fully recovered, like a great beast slowly licking its wounds, learning how to live again.

For the first time in her life, Ginny desperately wished she were somewhere else.

At the Ravenclaw table, for a start, next to Luna.

Ginny tugged on her tie, hoping to loosen it. She'd always been proud to wear the Gryffindor uniform, but now it felt bulky and itchy and unnecessary. It was like being thrown right back into the battle – stealing glances at the Slytherin table, looking at who was left, eyeing suspiciously the new students sorted there.

They were three of them. They looked small and sheepish. Ginny couldn't wait for the feast to be over.

"I heard you got Captain this year," Demelza told her with a smile. "That's great – we're a cinch from winning the Cup."

Ginny smiled back tightly. Captain, yes – Quidditch was apparently the only thing everyone thought she was good at. The owl had come one hot morning in August.

"I was sure it would be you," Harry had said. He'd smiled and told her Gryffindor would win the Cup too. As if that would somehow make her feel important.

It all sounded so derisive coming from him – so childish. He was leagues beyond silly games on broomsticks and silly cups and silly competition between houses. He was off to learn the most dangerous job in the wizarding world. He was everyone's hero, famous and adored. When Ginny thought back on those sunny, carefree afternoons they spent together by the lake when he was still at Hogwarts, or when they'd kissed in her room before the wedding, it made her want to cry. Everything seemed so natural, so simple back then.

But since Fred's death it seemed nothing was simple anymore. Between the funeral and the ceremonies and the constant demands made on Harry, he'd hardly had a second to spend alone with her. Not that Ginny particularly sought him out – underneath the heavy layer of grief was another, more insidious feeling.

She resented the fact that Harry had asked her to stay out of the battle while Luna and Hermione were already battling by his side. She'd thought he, of all people, would understand her need to fight. Not just because she loved him, but because the frightened little first-year inside her demanded it.

When Harry had approached her the day after the battle, the look she gave had frozen him in his tracks. Instantly she felt guilty – she had no right to be angry when she was already so miserable, when he'd finally emerged victorious and was looking at her, grave and handsome, in the morning light. This was not the way she'd imagined their reunion. But she couldn't help it – it felt as if the raw, brutal wound of Fred's death had numbed whatever patience and comprehension she had left, had made her half-mad with pain.

"I wanted to come to you sooner but I thought – I thought -"

"Nice of you to come now – and Ron too, you'd think he would've wanted to be with his family…"

"That's not fair to Ron," he'd replied. "He was exhausted, I heard him crying -"

"Yes, because I was out celebrating, of course – wait, no, I was actually looking for you, I hardly had time to see you alive after thinking you were dead…"

"Don't think about that. I'm here now, aren't I? I want to be here for you."

_Because your brother's dead._

"Don't think about that," she repeated, "don't fight, don't do this, don't do that – what are you, my mother? You sure sound like -"

"Stop it!" The harshness of his tone took her aback. Then his expression softened. "Ginny – I know you're angry, I know you're sad, and I'm sorry, just… please, let us just be together right now. Let me just hold you. I've waited so long…"

Tears came to her eyes. It would be so easy to let go and be engulfed in his embrace, to feel him against her, warm and alive. But something inside was holding her back, like an invisible string tightening around her heart if she moved forward.

_Because your brother's dead, you have no right to be happy. You have no right to rest. Not now._

"I'm not a… a bloody cuddly toy."

The hurt in Harry's eyes at that moment still haunted her.

At least some good had come out of it, Ginny thought with a heavy heart, pushing her empty plate back and leaving the table. At least she wouldn't have to bother with a long distance relationship.

"Ginny, wait up, if you will," she heard Luna call from behind her. The blonde girl had stood from her seat and was following her outside. "Are you going back to Gryffindor Tower already?"

"To be honest, I don't really know what to do with myself tonight," Ginny replied. "It just feels completely off to be here – you know, talking about Quidditch and classes and such."

"Oh definitely," Luna said, nodding. "And it's rather lonely without the others, isn't it? It's like there's only the two of us left. I'm sad that Neville isn't here."

Ginny gave a small laugh at Luna's wistful tone. "Well, let's just hope this year will go by quickly," she said. "It can't be worse than last year, at any rate."

"Oh, it's so wonderful to have Quidditch again," Luna said, wide-eyed. "Professor McGonagall told me I could comment all the games!"

"In that case, I just might get back on my broom," Ginny said, slipping her arm through hers as they started up the staircase.

It wasn't much to look forward to, but it was a start.

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When he woke up and when he went to bed, day in and day out, he thought of her.

It was all right when he went to the Ministry, when he followed training – he had something to focus on, he needed to concentrate, and the courses were hard. There was complex magic to learn, strategy, concealment, antidotes, institutional knowledge and ethics – endless hours discussing ethics. And he hadn't even started the physical training yet.

Some courses were boring, others were very interesting. Some of his trainers were fascinating people with man stories to tell, others seemed to have passed the last twenty years in a cubicle without seeing the light of day. All of them, though, were both intrigued by the famous Harry Potter and proud to be teaching him.

And of course, he couldn't pass through a corridor at the Ministry without being the receiving end of a salve of warm greetings, slaps on the back, admiring glances and giggles from the youngest female employees.

Harry had never felt so lonely since leaving the Dursleys' for Hogwarts. The media whirlwind had died down, thank God, but the peace and quiet was slow to come. Or rather, it wasn't the kind of peace and quiet that he needed – he was cherished and adored by hundreds of people and came home alone every night. Everyone wanted a piece of the story, but he never knew what to tell them, and ended up saying nothing at all.

And whenever he retired to his comfortable, empty flat, where dozens of letters awaited him each evening, his mind automatically locked on her. Ginny. Now that he wasn't fending off terrible dangers of all kinds, it seemed there wasn't anything left to keep thoughts of her at bay.

London was grey and cold that day, and the sun was already low when Harry left the Ministry. He liked to walk home some days, it kept his mind off things.

"You two are mental, that's what you are," Hermione had told him just before leaving for Australia.

"You're starting to talk like Ron, do you know that?"

She'd given one of her patented pointed looks, guaranteed to make him feel like a complete idiot. "All I'm saying is that Ginny's grieving, she's not in her usual state of mind – she didn't mean what she said that day… and she really needs you."

"Well, I'm sorry to say I got the exact opposite message, coming from her," Harry had replied dejectedly.

"Oh, Harry, a girl like Ginny's not the type to admit that, can't you see? I think she gave you plenty more than enough proof of her feelings over the – oh, seven years that she pined over you."

But that was _before_. Before everything happened, before everything changed. Now she was alone at Hogwarts, surrounded by what Harry sometimes imagined to be hoards of love-sick blokes, and with so much things left unsaid between them – because they hadn't had the time nor the courage to say them – that it was hard to not to suppose that she loathed the very thought of him.

Harry shivered and pulled his cloak closer. It was no use going home this way, in this miserable weather. Feeling rather depressed, he arrived at his flat, and his spirits lifted a bit when he saw an owl from Ron in the pile of mail, and another from Neville, asking whether he was free for dinner that evening. Cheered by the thought of seeing his mate, Harry hastily wrote a reply and gave the parchment to his new owl, Astor. He was a barn owl with a flat face, dark eyes, and a fluffy white plumage, like Hedwig. His name reminded Harry of another dear friend that had fallen that same night.

At first he'd been reluctant to take any owl at all – he felt like he was betraying Hedwig's memory somehow, replacing her simply by walking in a store and fishing out a couple of Galleons. But it had soon proved impossibly tedious to go to the Postal Owlery every time he needed to send a note, and he'd finally given in, buying an owl whom he thought would have won Hedwig's approval – smart, dignified and efficient.

"There's a good fellow," Harry said as the owl stretched out his leg. "Take this to Neville quickly, all right?"

The end of the afternoon couldn't pass by quick enough. Harry tried to occupy himself with some reading – a thick tome on Dark Mages through history – but ten minutes before eight, he just couldn't stand still anymore and after slipping his cloak on, he Apparated in front of the restaurant where he was supposed to meet Neville, a small, inconspicuous eatery where he hoped they would eat in peace.

A few minutes later, a small popping sound betrayed Neville's arrival, and Harry instantly felt the smile that had been missing all day grace his lips at last.

"Hey, mate," Neville said, shaking his hand vigorously and glancing up at the faintly glowing sign above the door. "_I- Ching Chow_, huh? Sounds all right to me. I'm starving."

"You and I both, Nev – I guess that's the lot of blokes living alone, I'm a mess at cooking anything."

The two friends entered the restaurant. The waitress, upon recognising Harry, instantly gave him the best table, something that never failed to make him feel horribly embarrassed.

"So how are things at the Botanical Institute?" Harry asked Neville as they were scanning the menu. "Did you finally get rid of that screeching fungus?"

"Yeah, we took the earmuffs off today, it's become bearable again. How about you, though? Ministry treating you all right?"

It was difficult, and even a bit mortifying at times, to explain to his friend what trouble he was going through to adapt to his new life, but somehow Harry felt there were things Neville could understand better than Ron or Hermione did. For one, Harry suspected Neville knew what it was like to leave someone he fancied behind at Hogwarts. And what was more, he too was living alone. Of course, Neville still had his grandmother, but he'd never had his parents around to teach him what seemed like stupid, silly things – like patching up a sock, or choosing the right water temperature to clean laundry, or… dressing a salad or something like that.

It was when he was stuck with rumpled sheets in a corner of the room, or a plate of plain pasta standing alone on the table as his sole dinner once again, that Harry thought of his mother, of Molly, of how well they tended to their house, with what love and care they did it, and how happy he would be to learn to cook, with Ginny by his side, laughing gaily at his clumsy attempts…

"Harry, are you listening?"

"Yeah, what was that, Nev?"

"I said, I think it'll get better once Ron gets here," Neville said. "Won't be long, I reckon, he can't stay at the Burrow forever."

He motioned towards the waitress and they made their order. Harry pondered over Neville's words.

"No, I suppose not, but… I think he's reticent to leave his family, actually. He's been worried sick over his mother, and how she's coping with it…"

"Well, he's not doing her a favour by hanging around," Neville replied, then, seeing Harry's surprised expression: "What I mean is -"

"Excuse me, sir, I'm terribly sorry, but…"

Harry looked around to see a middle-aged witch, clutching a pudgy boy by the hand , looking at him with subdued admiration.

"I hate to interrupt you in the middle of dinner, but my boy…"

Harry forced a smile and nodded amiably. Of course, he hated being pounced on that way, of course, he didn't want anyone barging in on his conversation, of course it was all a tremendous pain, and he was sure he'd have trouble looking Neville in the face afterwards.

But could he really say that to the meek-looking witch and her little boy? Harry had quickly found out that it was impossible. The only thing to do was block the absurdity of the situation out of his head and sign the crumpled piece of paper as quickly as he could, wishing these people he didn't know all the best.

"Oh, thank you so much, sir, thank you…"

He had fought for them, for all of them, Harry reminded himself. And this was the price of being a "celebrated hero". The term made him sick, still… _Better a hero than a martyr_, as Ron had so aptly put it.

"What was it we were saying?" Harry said, very red in the face, trying and failing to sound unaffected.

"Artificial prolonged stay in the parents' nest," Neville replied. "Sooner or later, it's bound to make things even worse than they are. Besides… we have lives to lead now, right? Not for our family, not for anyone but ourselves."

_Not for anyone but ourselves_… If only the wizarding world remembered that once in awhile, Harry reflected bitterly, there would be hope for him yet.

"So do you see your grandmother often or what?"

"She's on a cruise in Egypt. Sailing down the Nile. You know, I reckon that stint she pulled last year did her a load of good." Both of them laughed, and the food arrived. "It's crazy, mate - I'm starting to think I'm going to have to beg her to invite me home for Christmas."


	5. Chapter 5

A shrill giggling sound and a burst of excited voices came from the down the hall. Pansy pursed her lips and felt a jolt of annoyance. She had been living here less than three weeks and had not yet trained her ears against the frequent exclamations of the other interns.

"Masha told me the waiting line isn't so long if you get there at -"

"Well yeah, I don't mind skipping dinner or…"

The student dorm was a big material improvement over her quarters at Hogwarts, that much was undeniable. Pansy had her own room, her own shower, her own desk. She could come and go as she liked. There wasn't much work to be done and besides, no one ever bothered to check if she actually did it.

No one seemed to care about anything at all.

A year ago, this would've sounded like heaven. Pansy had often complained about Hogwarts, about the strict teachers, the curfews and the rules and the homework. Pansy had never liked to study, and she certainly didn't like to be told what to do either. In fact, she claimed to whoever wanted to hear her, usually a band of Slytherin girls as shrewd and self-aware as she was, that the only good thing Hogwarts had ever brought her was her rather fetching Prefect badge.

And Draco, of course. But that was a different matter entirely. Pansy sighed and distractedly flipped through the magazine on the table, not really seeing anything. The giggles had not subsided, and now seemed to be right outside her door.

A year ago, she would've given anything to leave Hogwarts, but she was lost now. She was lost inside the four blank walls that bore no other decoration that a calendar hanging off a tack. Her room was a solitary, impersonal universe she didn't know how to make hers, by decorating or arranging the furniture, simply because she had never had to bother before.

In fact, it was only coming here that Pansy had realised how ridiculously easy everything at Hogwarts had been. She'd never had to make friends – they'd just naturally converged towards her. She'd never had to fight for her place, or claim it, or even question it. For years, she'd had her seat reserved at the Slytherin table, next to Draco, she'd had her silver and green pennant ready for every Quidditch match, she'd had her skirt and her blouse and her sweater fit to wear, fit for her to glare at Gryffindors, and smile at housemates.

"So where do you come from?" a Spanish witch living in the room across from hers had asked, the day she'd arrived.

"Hogwarts," Pansy had replied. "I was in Slytherin."

The girl had seemed confused. "Hog-wots? That's in – Ireland, right? Or is it England?"

None of the codes she'd learned worked here, bringing her to complete frustration. It was as if she's not only moved across the Channel, but to an entirely different planet. Oh, she'd suspected a change, bigger than what she could wrap her mind around, when her parents had sent her off. It was a finishing school for young witches, they'd said, one of the finest in Europe, where she'd meet other girls her age. Get away from England for awhile. Keep clear of unnecessary trouble.

Six days flat after the battle, they'd packed her off to Paris.

But nothing at all - not her parents' recommendations, not Draco's empty words of reassurance - nothing had prepared her for life on her own. She didn't speak French. She had to buy her own groceries, cook her own food. Wake up alone every morning. Find her way in through the maze of streets and metro lines.

The first thing she learned about her new home was that French wizards didn't bother with hidden pubs, shops and alleys – they lived hidden amongst the Muggles, dressed like Muggles, shopped and drank and ate in the same places as Muggles did.

"I wouldn't be caught dead wearing those bulky robes, I already had to put up with them at school," a former Beauxbatons alumni had told her once. "The best fashion comes from Muggle stores, why shouldn't I shop there?"

Pansy was shocked and outraged and completely helpless. This was the world she was to live in now.

_I'm coming back at the end of the school year_, she'd written to Draco in her last owl. _I'm not going to stay in this wretched city a day more than I have to. _

And no doubt there would being screaming and crying and slamming doors, but her parents would give in eventually, like they always had.

_I miss you terribly, I wish I could be with you._

She was far away from Draco too, and for some reason, the words she scrawled at the end of her letters, words she had told him a thousand times, seemed awkward and incongruous glaring back at her from the parchment. But that didn't matter – they loved each other, that was what mattered. It would be hard not to see each other for so long… but they had owls, and she would come back for Christmas anyway. His father would be cleared from all charges by then, and she would be able to invite him to her house…

A knock on the door wrenched her from her thoughts.

"Pansy?" There was a small laugh, followed by a loud shush. "Pansy, can we come in?"

Pansy reluctantly opened the door. She knew who that voice belonged to. Ashley was one of many American girls who lived in the dorm. All of them were tall, outspoken and friendly, if a bit high and mighty, and Ashley was the friendliest and most outspoken of them all, which made Pansy incredibly uncomfortable. She never seemed to know what to say to her, nor did she know how to react when faced with such a heedless display of sympathy, drawled out with the greatest ease in that loud, ungraceful accent.

"Hey, come on in," she told the three girls standing outside. Behind Ashley was one of her friends, Kate, and the Russian witch that lived two doors down, Oleina.

"Wow, Pansy, it's so… prim and proper in here," Ashley said with a big smile. "Are you planning on decorating the walls a bit?"

Not for the first time, Pansy wondered how on earth Ashley always managed to keep her hair so perfectly arranged and shiny – there must be a spell she wasn't aware of, a spell carefully guarded by American witches. "I haven't decided yet."

Actually, she'd tried to hang up her Slytherin pennant the day before, but it looked so alone and out of place on the white wall that she'd taken it down almost immediately.

"Oh, wow, is that the British edition of _Teen Witch Weekly_?" Kate asked, tracing a finger on the magazine. "That's so cute!"

For some reason, the other girls seemed to find this amusing. Pansy shifted her weight from one foot to another, unable to move, unable to speak.

"Well, anyway, we wanted to invite you to come with us tonight," Oleina intervened, her tone pressing heavily on the vowels. "We heard about this really great club - "

"A wizarding club?" Pansy blurted out before she could stop herself.

The girls exchanged a glance. "Well, a lot of wizards go there, from what we've heard," Ashley said.

"And it's not like a real night-club or anything, it's more like a bar night-club, you know?" Kate said, as if that explained anything.

Ashley tossed her hair back and smiled again. "And like, it's Friday night, so I thought it might be nice if we all had fun together. You didn't come with us last week, but we thought… Well, we're all going to live together this year, so we should get acquainted. And you look like a really sweet girl."

Pansy blinked at her. _A really sweet girl_? Anyone who would've called her that at Hogwarts… no, it wasn't even imaginable, simple as that. Suddenly, Pansy felt slightly scared that Ashley might be hiding something under that surreal smile – some dark plan to run her out of the house, to make her an outcast, or perhaps simply to make her look like a fool. Perhaps she had British cousin in Gryffindor, and had somehow found out that Pansy was from Slytherin…

"So, what do you say?"

"I – um – I don't know, I was planning on… getting a bit of work done…"

The three girls started to laugh. "Come on, Pansy, you'll have the whole weekend to work," Oleina said, planting her hands on her slim hips.

Pansy looked away, embarrassed, angry that she didn't have the nerve to tell them that she didn't want to go out, that she only wanted to curl up on her bed and hide under the covers and wait for this miserable school year to be over, because she was scared of these streets she didn't know, this freedom she couldn't handle, and these new faces she couldn't sort.

"I – well, all right. Sure." She gave them a tight smile and the others looked pleased with her answer.

And through her smile, Pansy wondered what on earth she was going to wear, because the fancy wizarding robes, tailored-made, beautifully cut, the robes that had cost so much and had been so gratifying to wear, were useless here. _She_ was useless here.

But perhaps with some effort, she could make it through the night, and the day after that, onto the next.


End file.
